Technical Audacity
by sfwy
Summary: Miranda/Jack AU. Lawyer, electrician. White collar, blue collar. Attraction and repulsion. Bringing the ME dynamic to a more accessible 21st century Earth.
1. Eternal Recurrence

She was seated alone at the table. A petite woman—brunette—shoulder-length hair dishevelled. Not beautiful like a front-page model, but like a flash in the dark. She had a delicacy about her that had long changed into something else.

Her muddy work boots and stained jeans were certainly a contrast. A collared jacket and construction helmet lay on the ledge of the window next to her. Her bare arms were sleeved with black and grey tattoos.

She was reading a dogeared copy of _Thus Spoke Zarathustra_ as her other hand forked a plate of curry rice into her mouth.

Miranda got a good look at her before she approached. Labourers were not unexpected sights in the financial district, where new developments were a dime a dozen. But this quiet hole-in-the-wall Japanese eatery away from the traffic of Bay Street usually drew habitual patrons in ties and skirts.

"Mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is taken."

The woman looked up. She didn't appear disturbed. "Suit yourself."

"Good book. Nietzsche."

The woman put her book down. "It's good. Never got time to read it in university."

Now Miranda was getting the once over. They must have made quite a pair. She was in her usual uniform—if the other woman's outfit was another variety of the same idea—Miranda's a pair of black pumps, matching pantsuit, and a severely crisp white oxford. As she set her tray on the table the gold metal of her watch flashed in the sun. The woman's arm that held the book sported a more practical model on the slim wrist.

"You have more time for it now?"

"Pull wires by day, read Nietzsche by night. It's a good balance."

"So you're an electrician with a degree." Miranda was curious and she did not hide it.

If her prying irritated the woman, there was no sign of it. "Never finished. Fell off the ivory tower in my third year. Decided to apprentice—kick my own ass into gear."

"And did you?"

"Fuck yeah. And you? Should I guess?"

"You can try."

Another once over. "If I were one of the pigs I worked with I'd say administrative assistant. But I'm not. And you're too well dressed. That's a Piaget." The woman glanced at Miranda's watch. "I'm going to go with: management or lawyer. Am I getting warm?"

Miranda started, impressed. It was an understated watch, too, or so she thought. Nothing like red soles. "Yes, you are. Please continue."

The stranger across from her smirked. "Not even a hint? That's cold. Hmm." Dark eyes swept her again. Her skin prickled in its path. Nietszche lay forgotten on the table. "I'm going with lawyer. Final answer."

"And you'd be correct. But how could you possibly pick that up?"

A grin. "I didn't. I wanted to be a lawyer once. I was just being hopeful."

She gave the electrician an odd look. The woman's face darkened almost immediately. "Yeah, I know, from lawyer to electrician. I didn't fall through the cracks. My work makes me proud and I get home tired, which is more than what most of these assholes can say." The electrician was looking around them.

"I wasn't belittling you. You are clearly very self-possessed." Miranda defended herself quickly. She hadn't given the woman that kind of look—she hadn't meant to.

"Sorry," the electrician looked mildly chastened. "I thought I was over having my head stuck up society's ass. I still get defensive. I guess I had a picture of who I was but it didn't fit with how I felt."

Miranda laughed. She didn't often during daytime hours. "Well spoken. I've never heard it put quite like that. I'm Miranda." She thrust out her hand. The stranger shook it firmly with a smile that creased her eyes and endeared her face.

"Mishmash of a labourer's mouth and, well," the woman picked up the book. "It's like having two voices. I'm Jack."

"Is that a nickname or did your parents bestow you with that gem?"

That forcefully intent gaze was back. A derisive sneer did not look out of place on that face. "It's my name and if it doesn't fit your mouth, you might want to switch tables."

"Don't be ridiculous. If that's what you want to be called, I'll honour that, Jack."

Jack snorted. "How long have you been a lawyer?"

"Six years. How long have you been an electrician?"

"Got my Red Seal three years ago." Jack was picking at her food. It sat in a mushy mass in the centre of her plate. "Now I make the kids as miserable as they made me."

"You sound like you enjoy such a thing."

The electrician looked up, lips twitching. "It's right up there with my vacation pay."

"Do you yell or are you the silently disappointed type?"

"Whatever makes them cower."

"You remind me of my boss."

"Geez, you like that sorta thing?" Jack glanced at her watch, then grabbed her helmet and jacket without waiting for a response. "Sorry, gotta go. Gotta fuck up my apprentice's day. Enjoy your... whatever."

Miranda would swear, at that moment, an otherworldly force had moved her limbs. It landed on Jack's forearm. Her other hand had gone to her blazer pocket. It pulled out a business card and moved it towards Jack's torso. It placed the card in Jacks' reflexively outstretched hand.

"It was nice meeting you," Miranda said. Did her voice sound invariably husky? No, it always sounded like that when she was handing someone her business card. Like a switch. It was normal. It wasn't her fault if Jack took it the wrong way.

Jack stood by her momentarily holding the card. Then she walked away and out the door without a sound.

* * *

Jack hadn't ruined anyone's day. She pulled up an old transformer. She dug up the old run. She thought about the almost inhumanly beautiful, stick-up-her-ass lawyer. She new buried conduits. She ran them to the new transformer. She remembered Miranda's hand on her arm. She wasn't watching her dumbass apprentice with the splice kit. She shoved him aside and pulled the new wire he'd put down. As she was putting her toolbox in the back of her truck she remembered she'd forgotten to yell at him as he stood quietly aside, contrite, as she erased his fumbling. She hoped he didn't think she was going soft.

Her phone dug into her ass she settled in the driver's seat. She emptied her pockets into the cup holder as Talia climbed in with a groan.

"What?" She glanced over at her dusty friend, feeling a small twinge of compassion as Talia ran a hand through dark hair and caught it in what looked like a lump of glue.

"Remind why I'm apprenticing with that bastard."

"I learned a lot from Wren. He's a hard-ass but he'll teach you right. He's just making sure you can pull your weight." Jack backed out of the lot. Gary waved at them shyly from his VW Jetta. She glared at him through the windshield and turned onto the main road.

"I'm doing grunt work! He had me drilling on a ladder for hours. I thought my arms were falling off." Talia flapped her arms in front of her.

"Don't get your dust in my car."

"And you shouldn't be so mean to Gary. He's nice."

"Until he gets into your pants," Jack scoffed.

"He's a good guy. He even drilled for ten minutes during his break so I could rest my arms."

"There are only two women working on this site, Talia. He's not the only one drilling for you."

Talia coloured. "Shut up." She fiddled with the centre console. "When are you gotta get this fixed? How do you stand driving to work with nothing to listen to but a bunch of people honking at your ass down the 401?"

"I'm done with that clusterfuck next month. Found a place in Chinatown that doesn't have rats."

"That's close! We could brunch!"

Jack swallowed a snappy retort as Talia bounced once in her seat. "Yeah... whatever."

She had never brunched before. It sounded pretentious. She wondered if she could convince Talia to brave the Red Room instead. Apparently, it was managed by the Vietnamese mob, but the nachos were something else. She was broken out of that chain thought as a taxi swerved in front of her and honked. The pre-emptive honk—secretly impressed, she gestured crudely at the driver.

"What's this? Miranda Lawson, Lawson & Taylor LLP. Are you in trouble again?"

"No," Jack said quickly, avoiding a stray cyclist. "Put that back."

"This wasn't here yesterday," Talia continued. "So you got it today. From someone you met today. Before you left work."

"No," Jack said again. She watched the cyclist jump the curb and plow into a storefront.

"Are you smiling, Jack?"

"No! I was," Jack gestured at the cyclist, who had risen uninjured and was bent over his bike. She made a noise of disgust. "Stop talking or you're doing all my drilling tomorrow."

"I'm going to put this back in your cup holder. Y'know, next to your phone."

Jack slid the truck to a stop. "Get out of the car."

"Jack!"

* * *

An angry text lit up the screen. Jack rolled her eyes. She'd only stopped five minutes from Talia's apartment. She could never even find a place to pull over directly in front, anyway.

"Can't walk after a day of drilling?" She muttered her breath, but decided against texting back. She opened the fridge and stuck her head into the cold air. The ground chicken was not a good colour.

"Fuck. Delivery it is."

She picked up her phone. Talia had tucked the business card into the case. She pulled it out and looked at it. It looked like any other business card she'd ever seen and she still wanted to punch every smarmy prick that dared to hand one to her.

She wondered if Miranda was hungry now. She wondered if Miranda would be hungry on Saturday night. She wondered if Miranda could eat Duff's suicide wings and not run to the bathroom before the night's end.

She dialled the number.


	2. A Bump in the Light

"Miranda Lawson." The disembodied voice sounded distinctly bored.

"Hi," Jack said. "I'm hungry."

"Jack, this is my work phone. My personal, cell number is printed under that."

"You're a lawyer. They're the same."

"Ignoring me isn't going to win you any points."

"How many points am I at right now?"

A sigh came through the line. "And you're hungry? This isn't Pizzaolo. It seems you've mistaken a business card with a take-out menu."

Jack ignored her. "I'm going to be hungry on Saturday night too. Wanna catch up?"

"There's a lot to do, Jack. Maybe another time." Miranda's tone was perfectly modulated. Did she practice this line?

"Okay. Bye." Jack ended the call. She wished there was a cradle she could bang her phone against. The woman had given her the business card, not the other away around. And now she was too busy? Jack cradled her head in her hands, squeezing her temples until it hurt. She never knew better.

It was for the best. What good could a lawyer want with a sparky? She flopped onto her couch and fished a delivery menu out of the pile on the coffee table. A Montreal postal code caught her eye, one she hadn't seen it in awhile. She pulled the envelope out from under an Ikea catalogue. James Vega. He had a return address in Westmount. Someone had moved up in the world.

She was opening it before she caught herself and threw it back into the pile jerkily. This wasn't the kind of distraction she wanted from a rejection.

She was done with Montreal. She was done with Quebec. Long having accepted she couldn't hunt down every asshole involved, she'd buried everything that happened to her there. But it seemed a line on a map wasn't enough to hold ghosts back.

* * *

Miranda put down the phone and swept aside the briefing note she'd been writing. She shut off the lamp, letting her eyes adjust as the city lights washed her office silver.

There was a lot to do, but that wasn't why she'd rejected the electrician. Jack was too promising a distraction, more so than she was used to. Her past dalliances were in her sphere and knew the rules, knew how little they could expect from her. Jack was a loose cannon. She had no room in her life for surprises, for entanglements. Her father saw to it. She was nearly thirty, and the man still held her under his thumb. For not much longer, she reminded herself. The nightmare was about to end. But the life had set on her seemed as immutable as law, the path before her illuminated only by his gaze.

Her mind wandered back to the brunette, imagining Jack smirking at her from across in a table in a seedy bar with sticky floors that the woman would no doubt invite her to. The table became a bed, and Jack was underneath her, hair splashed over the pillow and more dishevelled then ever. She promptly wiped the image from her mind, wincing. It had been a while; that was a natural response. She and Jack were polar opposites, and that afternoon had been a bump in the dark. It was a dead end.

She pressed the history button on the phone's base unit. Last number. She picked up her cell phone and entered it, just in case. For another time.

Outside, the skyline was sinking into the night. Miranda blinked. Her eyes were dry and suddenly the city seemed to solidify again. She didn't know how long she'd been staring—she almost never lost concentration. Normal work hours had ended long ago and soon the streets would be crawling with bar-goers. She always tried to avoid that time. Picking up her purse and packing her briefcase, she walked by her father's lit door on the way out

* * *

"It's melted."

"Don't just stare at it."

A property manager near their site had put in an emergency request. Jack had sent her apprentice ahead with the toolbox, groggy from a catnap in her truck. She hadn't slept well last night. Probably the pizza.

The transformer lug was in fact looking a little drippy, but Jack didn't dwell. "What did the guy say?"

"Power was on and off on the top floors. Said he didn't know what it could be."

"It's toast, that's what it is."

"But I could just replace it. There's no damage on this side."

"Look at the winding lead. Discolouration. It's a fucking hazard, Tim, we don't screw around."

"It's a hazard?" The property manager was back. He looked sweaty, his balding forehead shining.

Jack eyed him with naked distaste. "When was the last time you had inspectors in, buddy?"

"Uh," the man scratched his nose.

She waved Tim towards the untouched toolbox. He picked it up, looking between her and the manager hesitantly. She tilted her head towards the exit and was about to make another jab when the door opened again and another man stepped in. Where the property manager was flushed, floundering, the new arrival was tall with frigid blue eyes and dark hair greying at the temples. Looking at him made Jack bristle.

"Mr. Lawson! You aren't—"

"My office is blacked out, Shaw." The man turned to Jack. "What's your diagnosis?"

"I'm condemning the transformer." Jack strode past him and caught a whiff of his cologne. She wrinkled her nose and grabbed the door before it closed. "You figure it out."

The light in the lobby blinded her momentarily; the building was more windows than walls. Somebody in a rush bumped into her she stood in the sunshine, blinking away the glare.

She staggered forwards. "Whoa, linebacker. Lay off."

The stranger didn't snark back. Jack turned. A suit was staring at her—a very familiar one. She looked harried, something Jack instinctively knew was out of place on the woman.

"A lot to do, Miss Lawson?" She drawled.

"Don't know how to take a no, Jack?"

"Rough on your toys. Aren't you a princess." Jack's lip curled and she headed for the revolving door, shoving her hands into her pockets.

"Wait."

A hand closed around her wrist. Jack jerked it away. She gave the lawyer a blistering look, but waited for Miranda to speak.

"Are you hungry? My schedule cleared up for the day."

The woman clearly did not know how to apologize, but nobody was perfect. Jack was of the view if something had to be properly apologized for, anyway, then whatever warranted it did more damage than words could fix.

Mulling over her answer, Jack's eyes slid downwards. Miranda was wearing a dark blue skirt suit today, cream coloured blouse bringing a warm glow out of her cheeks.

The body shifted, a hand going to a hip. Jack looked back up. Miranda had seen her looking.

Her mind worked fast. From what she'd seen, the property manager was unlikely to speak to anyone else today, and the foreman wanted Tim after lunch for some heavy lifting. She had been napping in the truck in the first place because she was still waiting for panels to be delivered.

"I can cut class," Jack decided. "Where to?"

"Have you been to Turf?"

Jack gave Miranda a droll look. "Suit bar. Retirees-back-as-consultants-because-their-wives-hate-them suits. That's your choice?"

"So you've been there." Miranda sounded smug.

"I want a burger," Jack sniffed. She didn't wait, but a tell-tale click of heels followed her through the revolving door.

"Did you find out what happened to our power?" Miranda caught up to her quickly on the sidewalk. They had caught the back end of the lunch rush, and the crowds had thinned.

"A transformer's shot. Your property manager's negligent. Not that there's a high standard of integrity in this part of town."

She could see Miranda frowning at her from her peripheral. She turned a corner and the lawyer's face dipped temporarily out of sight. "A Mr. Lawson stopped in looking nice and frosty. Your boss is your father? That's chummy."

"Not by a long shot." Miranda's tone was clipped.

"I see it how it is," Jack mused. "That accent, it's Australian. Your father didn't have it."

"He didn't raise me a so much as fund me," Miranda disclosed. Her face was stormy; Jack didn't pry. They strolled down Yonge Street side by side for several minutes.

"Tell me about yourself."

"That's your opener?" Jack chortled, pushing a door open for Miranda. The waitress directed them and she slid into the diner booth across from the lawyer. "You don't do this often, do you?"

"And 'I'm hungry' is yours?" Miranda's amused smile took the sting out of the words.

"Everyone's gotta eat," Jack shrugged.

They lapsed into silence as they pored over the menus and ordered. As the waitress withdrew the menus Miranda leaned forward, clasping her hands on the table. "What and where were you studying for those three years?"

"Whoa, don't get lawyer-mode on my ass." Jack glanced up at the ceiling.

"I thought you wanted specificity."

"Neuroscience, at McGill."

The woman across from her raised her eyebrows, sitting back against the booth. "That's unexpected."

"What were you expecting? Buddhist studies? A community college?"

Miranda quirked a smile at Jack's outraged tone. "Seeing you with our good friend Nietzsche yesterday, I was expecting philosophy, or one of the humanities."

"Not too imaginative, are you? Political science? Executive director of the pre-law society?"

"Yes to both, but I had minors in the Classics and Equity Studies."

"Oh, a rebellious streak."

Miranda narrowed her eyes. "Wouldn't you know what that is."

Jack looked down at her arms and grimaced. "Yeah, don't I look like a high school dropout. Stand-up choice of company, Miranda."

"Tattoos are expensive, a luxury like anything else, and yours look like they cost a pretty penny." Miranda was appraising her arms now, slow and careful.

Jack crossed her arms. Miranda returned her eyes to Jack's face, an eyebrow high on her forehead. "Are you always this prickly or are you having a bad month?"

"Part of my charm. Take or leave it."

The waitress broke their stare to deliver their orders. Miranda struggled with the glass ketchup bottle briefly, studiously avoiding Jack's eyes. This was definitely not her usual fare.

Jack was surprised with the lack of awkwardness. Still, neither of them seemed to have personalities prone to unease. She hadn't expected them to have much in common—in fact, they clearly didn't. She'd only expect someone of Miranda's sort to come down for a roll in the sheets, not to rub shoulders. She had shown no interest in Miranda's work thus far, and Miranda's work was the type that consumed a life.

"Why neuroscience?" Miranda bit the tip off a fry.

"I don't know." She did know, but Miranda had never seen the crossroads she'd stared down for years.

"Don't play dumb, it's insulting."

"Touchy." An anecdote came to mind, a memory not yet interred. "Alright, I got work in the labs every summer." She snorted at the look on Miranda's face. "So I was a prof's pet. I got ahead, whatever. I got in on a trial looking at the neurobiology of childhood abuse my second year. Psychological and physical. We saw abnormalities everywhere—EEGs, MRIs, hormone levels. It doesn't surprise anyone psychiatric diagnoses are up in kids with fucked up parents, but these squishy kid brains grow debilitated. So not only are you dealing with the emotional fallout but your fucking hippocampus might be smaller than average. Take your knocks and you're a different person."

Miranda looked contemplative, or troubled. "That got to you."

"Shit, I already knew getting kicked in the face rearranges your brain. But these kids, these grown-up victims we shoved into the scanner, made into the numbers. My prof's getting recognition, profiting off the pain they went through on the ground. Fine, he says his research is for treatment, or you could make sure the scum of the earth aren't popping 'em out. Guess where the money is."

The lawyer was evaluating her closely. Her expression had softened from its usual aloofness. Jack looked out the window, not wanting a moment. They wouldn't forgive each other.

"You want to be on the ground," Miranda noted gently.

"You can have your egghead name on an article. Out here somebody puts my name to my face. Shakes my hand. Decides whether they can trust me on the spot."

"Human nature. We all want recognition."

Jack cocked her head back, but Miranda was diligently corralling the scraps on her plate. "Yeah, I bet you get your share of looks in the courtroom."

The edges of the lawyer's lips creased at that, but Jack received a stern head shake. "It's not like that. My family's legacy is law. It's a long line of the same. I was groomed for one thing. I had my diversions, but I could never stray. My father's firm is a force in the corporate world—and very old. I know my place."

"You're what, early-thirties, six years chasing ambulances, sitting on a pile of dough. You don't wanna divert a bit more?"

"I don't practice that kind of law. They always come to me." Miranda's amusement faded almost instantly. She looked pained. "I'm twenty-nine. I got ahead. And it's... terribly complicated."

"Try me."

"Maybe some other time." Rebuffed again, and almost verbatim.

The cheque arrived and they each tossed in a few bills without discussion. Miranda took a sip of water, then began sliding out of the booth.

"I should go. I was supposed to work from home."

"I'll walk you back," Jack offered. The door chimed after them. Was that too quick? Did she sound too interested? Not that she should care—she never made her intentions secret.

"No, you should find your car before it gets dark." The woman was skilled at evasions, Jack could give her that.

"Yep." Jack was ready to leave.

She made the barest of motions before Miranda stepped forward smoothly, put a hand on a slim shoulder, and kissed Jack on the cheek. She lingered, and Jack could feel her breath on her face."I have your number. Don't plan for Saturday night."

The lawyer stepped back with a cryptic smile. She turned and strut down the street. Jack always liked working in this district. Pencil skirts and heels were a diabolical invention.


End file.
